


from beginning to no-matter-how-it-ends

by hurricant



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Death, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, M/M, Past Abuse, Some will be cute some will be angsty, Suicide Attempt, all potential triggers will be indicated accordingly, some pre-rent some during rent some post rent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5610769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricant/pseuds/hurricant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every story is us, that's who we are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief death mention, religious anxiety

One of Maureen’s favorite regulars working the Saturday morning women’s shelter brunch was Shirley, who was 90 and a freight train. The first day they met, Maureen had just recently gotten her first tattoo and an industrial, finally looking (or so she believed) the part of the cool and cultured, out-of-sync activist she had felt she had been all her life. She was wearing too-tight blue rubber gloves on her sweaty hands, sorting the good muffins from the moldy muffins, as a very small, wiry old woman limped towards her, stopping only a good foot away to stare. 

Maureen had dared to be the first to look Shirley in the eye and ask a question. “Can I help you?”

“Is your name Jamaica?” Shirley asked, raspy and somewhat grave. 

Maureen’s brow furrowed, looking down at her shirt—a stained and ragged Jamaica Plain t-shirt, borrowed from Mark, borrowed from Collins, borrowed from a Bostonian cousin’s friend’s boyfriend, or something. “No?”

Shirley said good, because she didn’t trust people who had places for names. Upon learning Maureen’s true name, she said her first steady boyfriend had been stolen from her by a total bitch named Maureen, and that she probably would never be trusted, not by Shirley.

That being said, after trying to decide whether or not a package of muffins were pistachio-flavored or just covered in mold, Shirley said she admittedly liked Maureen more than Evan at the front desk. “Honestly, if he so much as looked at me the wrong way, I’d probably kill him. Let me know if he ever looks at you the wrong way, I’ll kill him. Except maybe, with a stupid ear piercing like that, you could probably do it yourself.”

Maureen showed Shirley the tattoo on her ankle (a Venus symbol, to cover the stick-n-poke Venus symbol Roger had done a piss poor job of giving her a year or so back after senior prom), and in exchange, Shirley showed Maureen the tattoo on her ass (nautical stars, for her deceased husband, gotten drunkenly before he was shipped off to the Pacific). 

They would spend a few more Saturdays together—some of Maureen’s first living in the big city—before Shirley would suddenly pass away on a Friday night from a heart attack, leaving Maureen to sort muffins, alone. However, Maureen being Maureen, she would go onto also get a tattoo on her ass too (nautical stars, though it wasn't her initial intention to copy Shirley with the whole ass tattoo—she just liked the meaning). The industrial, though, became infected.

\---

Mimi’s search for magic, for meaning in this world begun probably before she could even remember, watching her mother’s, her aunts’, her cousins’ make-up routines in awe and a meticulous curiosity, taking mental note of every shade and slather. There was something magic in the make-up, or so she believed when she was only 5 or 6, that turned slouched shoulders broad and swayed even the most rigid hips. The more there was in a room, too—the more women, together, putting on make-up—the more magic there was, in their smooth voices, their gaudy laughs. Like a group transformation, as though throwing glitter on your insecurities made them nothing but shine and spreading pink on your lips turned them into roses. It extended, too, as they left their bathrooms and bedrooms and ventured into the world—if the women were beautiful, they were happy, and if they were happy, their men, husbands, boyfriends, brothers, were happy too. The make-up wasn’t just magic, as far as Mimi could see—it was powerful too. Her father asserted his position as man of the house, sure, but even he answered to her mother’s tut tut tut and sharp gaze at the end of the day—as did her uncles, her cousins, her cousins’ boyfriends. Mimi, at 5 or 6, believed in make-up like other kids believed in Santa or the Tooth Fairy. 

Her first day at the Cat Scratch—nerve-wracking in a way she refused to name—she walked into the dressing room and felt her nausea lift, watching her fellow dancers fix each other’s’ make-up, comfortable in the smoke and leather. Mimi watched them laugh with each other, laugh into the sparkly blues and smoky grays and fierce rouge and then go onto work a crowd into the palm of their hands. Sure, there were grabby customers. Sure, her boss could be a little harsh. And sure, there was the maze of a Catholic upbringing that tangled in the back of her mind, convincing her that this (her) living was inherently sinful, wrong. But being with the others, preparing her wings with a sharp flick, there was a small reprieve. 

\--

The thing about it, Collins had begun with a shrug, is that a lot of those initial symptoms weren't any different than what anyone else was experiencing from just traveling in Europe. Waking up with a sore throat wasn't uncommon after a night in a hostel, a few sniffles could've easily just been allergies acting up in a new climate, and diarrhea—have you eaten in Europe before? Not that European food was particularly gross or anything, especially in comparison to American food, just it was so monumentally different, anyone's bowel movements would've been feeling funky after a few street-sold gyros. 

(This commentary prodded a few, thankful laughs, breaking up what had otherwise been the inhale and exhale of Roger's nervous cigarette, passed between the three of them dangling their feet off the fire escape. A siren and the rustling of metal trash cans could be heard in the distance, and the cool spring breeze swept up the laughter as quickly as it had been brought on.)

Regardless, admitting with eyes sadder than they had ever looked, he was HIV positive. Saying it didn't make it feel like any more of a reality. Perceptions, virtual or actual or whatever, all pointed 6 feet under.

(And what's there to be said after a statement like that? Roger took another long, shaky drag, Mark took note of the bitter cold of the metal bar gripped in the palm of his hand. All three of them recalled the passing names and faces of peers taken by the disease that had otherwise kept it's distance: Ricardo, who was always at the laundromat when Mark was there, Colleen, who painted flyers for Well-Hungarian shows, Alex, who had graduated a year before Collins. Diane, Marty, Nicki. Josephine, Dante, Freddie.)

Another shrug, another profundity from Thomas B. Collins: "I did knock off a few things from my bucket list," he said, taking the cigarette for himself.

"What'd you do?" asked Mark.

Collin's flashed his million dollar smile. "Ran naked through the Parthenon." Roger snorted. Mark scoffed, relieved.

(Collins went on to detail his escapades abroad that had been mentioned with brevity in his postcards, where some had made more sense than others. With the conscious acknowledgment that their bubble had been burst, their base, infiltrated, Roger slapped an arm around Collin's shoulders, and Mark let the camera stay behind on the window sill downstairs.)


	2. don't go back to sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: brief death mention, nightmare sequence, drowning.

[First Shot: Maureen sitting alone on the couch, moved in front of the window for the sake of lighting. Dust particles danced in the June breeze. Warm, but the sun would be going down soon. Most of the living room had been rearranged so that the necessities could rest naturally within the frame of the camera—a plastic plant to the left of the couch, in front of a bookshelf full of old textbooks and older novels. Directly above her hung several photographs, artistically haphazard, with the right end of the couch being just barely out of frame.]

It wouldn’t be the first or last time that Mark would rope his friends into reading a scene for him, on film, in costume—the works. Sometimes it was just the best way to see if a scene really worked, is what he would tell them, but usually, it was the fastest way to feel like he’d accomplished something. Regardless, he had been given friends so diverse and passionate about their art that they took him and his requests seriously, even if they didn’t always respond so maturely to his actual work.

[Cut Shot: Roger and Maureen still hadn’t let go the script about gay college students calling bingo in for ghosts in a haunted house that Mark had written in high school. Or the one from the perspective of the garbage can. Or all of the ones with the same, rehashed, Hollywood-approved plot of awkward, vaguely self-loathing and/or Jewish boy-meets-perfect girl, conflict, boy nearly loses girl, boy fixes conflict, boy gets girl. In his defense, Roger pointed out the one where perfect girl had been replaced by perfect boy, and that maybe it could be a satire on the cookie-cut recipe, but then again probably not.]

This one in particular came up out of nowhere. Mark had written what he guessed would be a 4 minute scene in a little less than an hour that morning, and felt increasingly compelled to get something tangible or usable out of it. Granted, he’d felt that with snowballing intensity recently, but all writers hit a block or two sometimes, right?

[Cut Shot: Roger taping his sharpie-highlighted lines to the bookcase behind Maureen’s head, Maureen writing keywords on her wrist.]

Mark: _(off-screen)_ Alright guys, just to recap: the camera is going to be right here _(gestures to camera, resting on a stack of old textbooks, on the table, parallel to the couch)_ , rolling the whole time. I’m not going to touch it, just don’t look into it _(Maureen and Roger look directly into the camera, Mark rolls his eyes)_. If you mess up, keep going, and I think that’s it. Any questions?

Maureen: _(indeterminate whether she’s being sarcastic or not)_ What, you’re gonna sit there and just let the table do it all for you while we do all the work?

Roger: _(absolutely facetious)_ Can my character have an accent?

Mark: _(unwilling to graze either answer with a response)_ …So whenever you’re ready…

[Actual first shot: Maureen looking straight ahead, just above the camera, making her presence seem distant. Her tank top was an old one, a little too big, resting just off her shoulder as she sat alone, legs crossed delicately. Waiting for what? Waiting for something. Not the character, but Maureen herself was literally waiting for Roger’s character, who enters and sits beside her on the side of the couch that’s just out of frame. He’s doing most of the talking, sitting facing her, but due to his positioning, will never achieve the main focus. It’s all on Maureen, who’s answering his desperate (and poorly-rehearsed) questions with as few (overly-emoted) words as possible. Are they friends? Lovers? Ex-lovers? Siblings? It never says, but they’re both concerned, but mostly about different things that happen to overlap. He suddenly calls her out on her disinterest, on her selfishness; she turns and slaps him. The frame very suddenly brightens. He goes to recoil, but instead throws his hands up in front of his eyes and lets out a sharp groan.]

Roger: _(somewhat pained)_ Holy shit, where’d the sun come from?

Maureen: _(turning in the same direction, only to throw her hands up as well, with a laugh)_ Oh my god! It’s so bright!

[Continued shot: The Golden Hour. The sun was starting to set, bleeding in through the window and painting everyone yellow. The entire shot, from ceiling to floor, illuminated. Somewhat overexposed.]

Maureen: Pookie, can’t we just wait until the sun sets to finish this? I’m going blind.

Mark: _(hesitant)_ I don’t think we have enough lamps to keep the lighting up well enough to keep seeing your faces. Tomorrow maybe? _(Maureen and Roger nod in agreement)_

Mark picked up his camera and walked towards the window. When up against the glass, it was much easier to see, and man—the sight of sunshine peering behind buildings, making them look like black paper cutouts behind a light bulb—it never got old.

Roger: _(out of frame, distant)_ I can’t believe you actually hit me like that!

[New shot: kids playing double-dutch down the street.]

Maureen: _(also out of frame, shrill)_ You told me to actually hit you! You were like _(in a deep, lispy voice)_ “Maureen, just go for it, blah blah, I can take it, blah blah, macho macho!” [New shot: a sudden influx of traffic, where the light turned green.]

Roger: _(scoffs)_ I didn’t think you were gonna actually go for it though! 

[EXIT: Roger and Maureen, into the kitchen, probably to find something at least vaguely edible.]

[Close on Mark, who suddenly dull annoyance in his stomach that he got when he didn’t like a script idea anymore.]

\---

Domenico Marquez disappeared the night of June 23rd, sometime after leaving his home at 10 PM. His younger sister, Milagros, asked where he went. His parents, rosaries in hand, said he would be home soon. Don't forget to say your prayers.  

Under the blessed gaze of Jesus Christ and The Virgin Mother, his favorite jacket and sneakers were returned to his family on June 30th in an evidence bag. The body was nowhere to be found, but the blood had stained the concrete. 

\--

She’d had this same, general nightmare as far back as her memory could take her, and no matter how many times it’d reoccur or change ever so slightly, it was still enough to jolt her awake and ruin her chance of going back to sleep for the rest of night. Life had literally beaten her bloody once or twice—rolled a few ankles, broken a few nails, skinned a few knees—and Angel still clung to her sheets at night when faced with her childhood nightmare.

They started, with some variation, wherever Angel had last fallen asleep. As a kid, this meant rooms in the myriad of foster homes or the occasional night at the kid’s home when she was in-between families. As a teen, this was her room at the Dumot-Schunard’s lovely suburban house, where outside the window stretched vines and blooming flowers. As an adult, well, it had been a lot of places, but right now, it was her small, closet-sized loft, beside the one and only Tom Collins. Angel had been flexible enough that when the nightmare started, she had been at ease, waking up in any of this spaces.

They always started calm. Well-lit. Comforting and soothing. So when the water began to whistle and stream underneath the door or out of the ceiling, it paid her no mind. She loved the water—the sound, the way it looked like it was exactly the right cool, sweet temperature that you’d want to jump into on a hot, summer day. Angel was a mermaid too, so it was convenient, if anything, for her room to fill up like a fishbowl.

Indeed, pulling back the blankets, instead of legs, revealed a long, sparkling tail, with scales made up of every color you could imagine and then changed in the light. It was thrilling, it was a cause for pride—waving it back and form, kicking and watching the rainbow flash and shine. This part of the dream was a relief, not a terror. Diving into the deep and cavernous ocean floor her bedroom had become, Angel swam not like she’d been in swimming lessons all her life—which she hadn’t, are you kidding?—but like she’d been born breathing through gills. It was fluid. It was simple.

And for a few moments—was it hours, minutes, days in dream time? Who knew?—for a few moments, swimming with little fishy friends, racing through reefs and past sealilies, Angel thought that she could get used to this for sure.

Until it suddenly began to feel sort of warm.

The temperature change was just fine enough—things happen, you make do. Until the fish swimming around Angel began moving quite slow, until they weren’t moving at all. As they began to float to the top, bubbles from the heat rising with them, Angel’s heart sank. Wondering what exactly was going on, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of red creep and cloud. Unable to scream, Angel felt her beloved tail tear and crinkle back into broken, make shift legs, the water suddenly becoming too hot, too hot, too hot to inhale. She had to get to the surface, she had to get back into bed—that was it, that was all. Her legs didn’t kick with the rhythm and power that her tail did, but for a few moments—hours, minutes, days?—she believed it was enough to get her to the top.

Until the four walls of her fishbowl room drew nearer and nearer and nearer. Keep kicking, just keep kicking, make it to the surface. You’ll be fine. You can get out.

Boiling and scalding, Angel couldn’t breathe. Her disjointed and messy human legs became too painful to move. With the most horrendous sense of fear sitting in her throat, she coughed, and she hit the ceiling. Slammed on it with her fists and palms until it fell.

This is the part where she woke up in a sweat, coughing and choking and breathing as deep as her lungs would fill. Most of her life, no one had come to comfort her, and she hadn’t sought anyone else out—not that a presence had always been available to begin with. Recently, after waking and shooting straight up in attempt to find air, a large hand reached out and rubbed circles on her back in the darkness, eventually wrapping around her waist and falling back asleep as she watched the sun rise through the window.

 


	3. it stays and it must be interpreted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: (unintentional, vague, brief) homophobia, mention of hospitalization, implied substance abuse, suicide mention, nothing out of the ordinary for Rent tbh

  1. Joanne Jefferson’s long laundry list of accomplishments were probably something to be proud of.   

    * Numerous 4.0 semesters (she had been top 10 in high school and magna cum laude in college a year early)
    * Some ridiculous number of leadership awards and track awards and forensics awards, most of which were still on display in her childhood home (it had made for an interesting graduation party, all of her tangible successes spread out to create her “shrine” over three plastic tables)
    * Prestigious internships (there had been one or two that had made her current employer’s eyebrows raise)
    * Praise from some of the academic world’s greatest minds (Joanne had forgotten most of their names—she was young.)
    * This was by no means an exhaustive list. There was a lot, it’d take a while to make that list and Joanne never had the time.
    * The point being that this list asserted her somewhere comfortably above average, sure.
    * It was a fact Joanne was somewhat apathetic towards.
    * There was something more important than awards for the sake of awards, success for the sake of success, that's all.
  2. At least it made her parents proud. It could be accurate to say that Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson motivated Joanne. They’d probably love her ridiculously, unconditionally, but it’s nice when one, the pride and joy, feels actually worthwhile of the pride and joy.  

    * “Worth the pride and joy” meaning that she never completely went off the rails out of respect.
    * Granted, she shaved her head once, but it was after she came out and her parents asserted that they would always love her no matter what and support her…
    * “through this phase”
    * “Kitten”
    * (Even now, Joanne wondered how such intelligent people could have such a hard time wrapping their heads around naming and recognizing their daughter’s, frankly blatant, sexuality.)
    * However, their love and pride outweighed any confusion and they never treated her any differently, other than the occasional, quite rare, misinformed comment on her, perhaps, “meeting the right man” or something like that.
    * To which Joanne responded by wearing Doc Martens and trousers to their court hearings.
    * It was a give and take with her parents, one she could live with.
    * They had, after all, given her literally every opportunity to succeed in this world. The least she could do was take it.
  3. That being said, many of her colleagues had had similar opportunities, even similar achievements, and to be blunt, none of the motivation. Which, in and of itself, motivated Joanne.  

    * Okay, that was unfair—they were motivated by their paychecks.
    * Except Steve (AKA—just about the only coworker Joanne had that she actively enjoyed the presence of, let alone could stand).
    * Things that Joanne was that her coworkers tended not to be, with some exceptions: female, black, gay.
    * Things that her coworkers had that Joanne did not have: yachts, sexually frustrated wives, a suburban home with 2.5 kids and a golden retriever, a weird vague superiority complex, plastic surgery.
    * Things that Joanne had that her coworkers did not have: people trying to convince her that she was wrong in one way or another, an aggressive need to be right in every way or another, clients who made her heart break.
  4. And that was what really summed it up in the end, wasn’t it? Joanne could hardly call herself emotional, a bleeding-heart, picket sign-bearing, world-changer, but look around: 
    1. Foreign affairs? A mess.
    2. Domestic affairs? A mess.
    3. New York City? The same as it always was, AKA a mess.
    4. Her parents? The best of the best, but still somewhat representative of the same old-school barriers that were blocking real, solid change.
    5. Chit-chat, networking, and gossip around the watercooler? Okay, sometimes that was interesting, but mostly it was mindless and irrelevant in the face of the actual struggles facing real people regarding any of the aforementioned points.
    6. Her clients? Real people with real problems.
    7. Joanne wasn’t a crier, but she was a fumer. Optimistic, somewhat, but mostly pissed as hell.
    8. But of course, that was it wasn't it? Not awards for the sake of awards not success for the sake of succeeding not pride not holding it all together not yachts but her clients and what they faced in this world filled Joanne with something else that drove her, she supposed.



Petty, righteous, or anything in between—Joanne thrived on spite.

\---

"Milagros Maria" had turned into "Mimi" when her older brother had a lisp at 5 years old and could not pronounce his sister's name. "Mimi" did not introduce herself as "Mimi" to anyone outside of the neighborhood until she started at a public high school the summer after her older brother died— sorry, "went missing". "Mimi" and "Milagros Maria" were finally two different people when she dropped out of high school without telling her parents and spent the hours she would've spent in classes finding odd jobs for money to leave, meeting odd people for the hell of real, honest conversation, and some days, riding the subway train as far as it would go and back in hopes of maybe recognizing Dom's stocky figure in the crowds of commuters. 

\--

Born on Friday the 13th in the back of an ambulance that got stuck in the snow, Roger had apparently cried and screamed, relentlessly, for the 45 minutes that it took to get mom, son, and paramedics out of the country road ditch and en route to the hospital. The doctors told Ms. Davis that despite his rough start, there was no reason to be concerned for his future health, and that clearly, something somewhere was looking out for him—Roger was a very lucky boy. Ms. Davis looked between the doctors and the nurses and said that was great and all but they needed to either shut him up or get her something to drink because the crying _the crying_ was arguably more painful than the labor. The nurses had to remind Ms. Davis that she was 17 and maybe a nap would have to do instead. Okay, fair deal—it wasn't like Ms. Davis (eventually Mrs. Buckner, eventually Ms. Davis once more) wasn't going to have many future opportunities to drink off her son's disaster-prone antics. It was like a game: take a shot every time Roger needed to go to the hospital, take two if he needed to go by ambulance. 

That being said, all things considered, Roger probably should've died by now.

There was the seizure after the particularly bad flu (shot), the time he jumped off the shed roof on a dare and broke his leg (shot), the time he fell off the monkey bars at school and broke _both_ arms (shot shot—the teacher had apparently panicked and called an ambulance before calling Roger's mother), the time the chest pain that was totally fine, Mom, it's probably not even a big deal wound up being a partially collapsed lung (shot), and the time he tripped and broke his collar bone and his violin bow  _conveniently_ before a junior philharmonic concert (shot). 

There were also the times Ms. Davis had been particularly peeved about, like the time he broke a few fingers punching out a classmate on the first day at his new high school in defense of that pasty ginger Mom it's not like he was gonna do it himself (shot), the time he tried to play off what was actually walking pneumonia (shot), and the time he drank too much jungle juice on a visit to a college he was never going to attend, but that his best friend was (shot shot—Mark panicked and also didn't know how to drive Roger's stick-shift). 

Each and every time, Roger (and Ms. Davis, and sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Buckner, and sometimes Ms. Davis, Mrs. Davis, and Mr. Davis) was told by the doctors and the nurses that he was lucky or that he was just short of a real fuck-up or that clearly, something was looking out for him. Roger and his mom were rarely on the same page about anything other than The Who and Grandma's home cooking, but when doctors tried to remind them of Roger's mortality in ways they otherwise found cheesy, they exchanged a look of sorts and said, damn near unanimously, okay great.

There were the times Roger probably should've gotten checked out by someone, but refused to, like after he got elbowed in the face after his first punk show on his first night in New York City (shot), or when he tripped on his shoelace and sprained an ankle but was too embarrassed about it to own up (shot), the last time Mr. Buckner was around to chuck glass bottles and he cut his foot on the glass (shot), and the time he didn't have enough money for his drug dealer but was too desperate for a hit (shot).

Then of course, there were the times Roger agreed against his will to go get checked out, but asserted his mother would never, ever know, not over his dead body. The time he got hit by a car walking out of work (shot shot—another bartender called an ambulance for him, Benny helped him come up with a fake name because they had neither insurance nor grocery money). The time he found April (hesitant shot shot—he didn't remember how he got to the hospital). The time Mark found him (shot shot—Mark panicked and called an ambulance). 

When he got his T-cell results back from the rehab facility (shot—rehab counted as a hospital, right?), his therapist told him he was lucky he got checked early enough that the HIV wasn't AIDS yet, that maybe he'd live a bit longer because they could get him medicated. Roger was a lucky kid.   
  
-

It was his first day of college and this professor had them sitting in alphabetical order. Alphabetical order. In College. Benny was in between an aisle and an empty seat, however, so maybe it wasn't going to be so bad—

"Oh my god, there's a whole other black guy in this class. Unbelievable. I'm just kidding with you, but I'm not. There's gotta be like 30 of us tops on this campus. I'm Collins, by the way. Tom Collins."

Collins offered his hand. Benny took it and shook. Collins was all smiles and canvas. Benny was wearing his Sunday-best oxford on the first day of class, eyebrows furrowed. One of them was definitely very comfortable, the other one definitely felt like a jackass.

"Benjamin Coffin the III."

"Well, your highness, you want the whole title or...?"

"Benny is fine."

"Cool. You a freshman?"

"Well yeah. This is a freshman seminar class."

"Eh. I'm a senior."

"You're a senior?"

"I put off all my gen eds 'til the end—I got a little excited, I guess. Kinda regretting it now, but what can you do?"

"What's your major?" 

"Philosophy, although I think I might've picked up a soc minor somewhere along the way. I probably should check on that. What about you?"

"Economics and Poetry."

"Double major? Nice. Good juxtaposition in majors there, kid. Makes for a well-rounded mind."

"I guess. Economics is the back-up plan, y'know. In case I don't become, y'know, Emerson or Rumi, or whatever."

The professor had begun writing on the chalkboard. The very first college class, as an adult, and Benny was still expected to sit in alphabetical order.

"Practical, practical. Well, let me know if you ever need anything, Benny. Life gets a little overwhelming in college if you don't have a few people looking out for you. Your roommate okay?"

"Thanks, I appreciate it. And yeah he's pretty okay. Kinda nervous, I think. Jewish."

"Jewish? That'll come in handy—if anyone knows how to party, it's the Jews."

The professor cleared her throat, and lowered her glasses at the pair of them in particular. Collins seemed unfazed. Benny felt the heat in his cheeks. Clearly, making a great first impression, as an adult, in a college class. Day 1. Alphabetical order. 


	4. drink all your passion and be a disgrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: alcohol references throughout, so much alcohol.

Maureen, to absolutely no one’s surprise, is a flirtatious, cackling, stuttering drunk. She says a lot of the same nonsense she says sober after she’s thrown back enough shots—in her defense, she can really throw them back— the difference being she’s almost nearly incoherent, saying something damn near indecipherable but matter-of-fact enough for anyone to know she was probably putting the moves on them. It was probably for their own good that no one knew exactly what she was saying, because in true Maureen fashion and usually partnered with the attempted removal of her shirt, it was probably deeply lewd and beyond suggestive. Mark knew to cut her off just before she started sounding like her inner Long Island native and what’s your name, sweetheart became wat’s ya name, sweethaaat?

Roger had been the messy, clumsy, emotional drunk—a combination that once again, shocked absolutely no one who knew him, pre-smack anyway. Drinking happy and ignoring his towering and gangling stature, he would find his way onto someone else, wrap himself around them, and utter short, slurred, profanity-ridden phrases about how fucking great they were, how fuckin great the world was today, very occasionally through tears, usually through heavy-lidded eyes, just before breaking something important and probably delicate. That being said and also not a surprise in comparison to the rest of his life, Roger never quite figured out how to stop drinking once he started. Mark knew to cut him off when he was drinking sad or mad especially, because he would likely drink himself sick, to sleep, very occasionally into a fight, or usually into a cyclical monologue of What the fuck? What…the fuck?? WHATthe fuck???

-

[First shot: Mark's junior year commuting back and forth between Tisch and the loft on Avenue B that Roger had held some vague responsibility over since they both moved into Manhattan after high school. It was sort of strange how they had come to acquire it—jump shots, in succession: Roger a year earlier, taking up rent when the loft was owned by Jared, a writer, and a few cronies after their resident cartoonist got a job at a big wig newspaper, and those roommates moving out one by one/being replaced, one by one. First Maureen, after a non-committal stint in community college had inspired her to pursue to more creative interests away from home, then Collins, post-graduation and starting on his master's degree, and then Benny and Mark, who both magically convinced their parents that commuting would be great, easy even, of course it was safe, they were sharing the loft with four other people. Four other reasonable, safe people—Mom, you've met Maureen, Roger, Collins—they're nice! Nooooooo, no drugs, no hookers, no nothing! No alcohol either, of course no alcohol!]

[Pan left: Mark staying home on the Saturday night of the first long weekend to finish an assignment he'd been putting off and the guys just about busting down the door after an open mic night serving cheap alcohol and free waffles. A few brief greetings are exchanged, but Roger, drunk as a skunk and already hanging onto a giggling Collins and Benny, grabs hold of Mark and brings all three of them down with him, sitting cross-legged on the floor.]

Friends since high school, many of their conversations started similarly.

Roger: Maaark.

Mark: Yes Roger?

Roger: _(holding and releasing the fabric of Mark's shirt, patting it down and gripping once more)_ Mark. Mark, listen. Mark

Mark: _(almost laughing)_ Roger, I heard you the first time—what is it?

Roger: I _looooooove_ her.

Mark: April?

Collins and Benny: _(drolly, in unison)_ April.

Roger: _(burps) Aaaaaaaapril_.

Mark: _(slow, like he's talking to a child)_ That’s great, Roger.

Roger: _(not noticing the sarcasm)_ I’d marry that girl if I could.

Mark: Alright, I know this is your only relationship that’s lasted more than three weeks, but maybe slow your roll here a little bit…

Collins: ’Slow your roll’ *hic*—do you see *hic* how drunk this boy is, Cohen?

Mark: I see how drunk you are, that’s for sure. _(They laugh)_

Roger: _(still serious)_ I wanna marry her, Mark.

Mark: _(rolling his eyes)_ No, you don’t Roger.

Roger: Yes, I _do_!

Benny: Then why don't you?

Roger: _(rubbing his fingers over his thumb, shaking his head)_ Noooo money.

Collins: Isn’t it like, dirt cheap to get married at the courthouse?

Benny: Something like that.

Mark: But I guess you’d need money for somewhere to live that isn’t falling apart.

Collins: And for a reception, *hic* if that’s your kind of thing.

Roger: And for kids.

_(There was a collective pfffffffbbbbbbttt.)_

Collins: _(beginning to wipe tears fro his eyes)_ You’re _shitting_ me. You're drunk as shit, boy, and that's the truth. 

Benny: _(through laughter)_ Can you point out where the diaper is supposed to go on the baby, Roger? Can you imagine this dipshit raising kids? 

Collins: Can you imagine all the fucking redheads?

Roger: _(shaking his head, slowly and with his whole frame)_ You guyyys can laugh but I love her soooo damn much.

Benny: Marriage is awfully 'pro-establishment yuppie nonsense' coming from you there, Rog.

Roger: Hey B-benny—I don’t give two shits. I’ll do whatever I the _fuck_ I want. Nothing’s more puuuuuuUNk rock than doing whatever the fuck you wanna do, when you waaaaanna do it.

Collins: You’ll do whatever April wants, after you guys get married. _(Benny follows up with a whipping noise.)_

Roger: Hey, hey, listen. Hey, _hey_.

Mark: _(dropping his voice, mimicking)_ Hey, hey, listen. Hey, _hey_.

Roger: _(laughing)_ Fuck you guys. What the fuck? (snorting) Goddamn...

[A Kuleshov effect: a pile of Roger's clothes at his bassist's and drummer's place, a toothbrush at April's place—Roger had a vague sense of belonging in a lot of places, and was just about halfway out the door by the time Mark and Benny had really gotten settled. By Easter he was really moving in with April, and Mark admitted there was a weird sense of heartache as the two of them had once dreamed of living in the city together, and now it had happened, and Roger was packing up and moving, albeit, around the corner. Awww, Roger had jested, you're going to miss little ol' me? Come on—I'm barely a five minute walk—I'll be back whenever you guys want me here. Besides, you have Benny. And Maureen, now. You're hands'll definitely be full with that one. Love you, man. I'll see you later.]

\--

Mark usually gets drunk under two conditions: when he's beyond sad, tired, or livid and needed to get back at someone or something without really technically getting back at them, but also when he needs to cut off his friends’ habits and winds up downing their drinks for them (the only exception to this had been his bar mitzvah, his tiny 13 year-old body unaware of how much was too much). Otherwise the responsible one, he becomes rather sarcastic, cynical and bitter, and had once or twice broken something intentionally, with a shrug and an oops, _sorry_ about that one. There's a reason a few of the waiters at the Life Café give him a weird look when he came in and he doesn't remember why. 

\---

  * It is a truth universally acknowledged that most Harvard kids were dead inside anyway, and on Thursday thru Sunday, all night (or at least until the campus parties are shut down and all the true brave hearts move to the Kong), they were going to be found drinking away the stresses of the past week. 
    * This all, of course, depended on how close one was to the end of term, but don’t worry, they always picked back up post-finals week.
    * Joanne was no stranger to this philosophy, which is why she shouldn’t have been annoyed this particular Thursday night in December, t-minus 10 hours until her Advanced Community Law Clinic. 
      * But boy oh boy, she was so annoyed.
      * So unbelievably deeply annoyed.
      * Because right below her dorm was clearly some kind of celebration, complete with all of the typical whoops and hollers associated with drinking games and the occasional broken glass item as well as a third round of Queen’s “We Are the Champions”.
    * Aside from the fact that this monumentally important final had been looming over her head for the better part of the week, Joanne was never really much of a drinker as any instance where she didn’t feel completely in control of herself and her actions was an instance she did not want to be in. 
      * Not that Joanne was a particularly irresponsible drunk— she's actually rather serious drunk, normally, although she admittedly had a history of winding up in closets sucking face. Whatever. It happened like twice, maybe three times? Please let it go, Charisse.
      * Charisse was Joanne’s roommate, another legacy gal herself who wasn’t ignorant to the fact she wouldn’t have gotten into Harvard without Mom and Pop sliding the dean a picture of her in front of the not-John Harvard statue at the ripe young age of three. She was not only at this party downstairs, no, Joanne could occasionally hear her shouts of Round 1! Round 2! Round 3!
    * T-minus 9 ½ hours until the final exam—Charisse makes her move. 
      * Joanne, you need a break. Joanne it’s been days. One drink, just to loosen you up. You’re too stressed—you’ve been working so hard! You’re already going to do great just give yourself a break! We all want to see you!
      * Absolutely not Charisse but I’ll leave the door unlocked for you when you come back in. Turn the lights on if you have to but try not to be too loud.
    * T-minus 8 ¾ hours until the final final exam—Charisse brings a friend up. 
      * Her friend Genny
      * Genesee Cream Ale, that is
      * Figured if you weren’t gonna join us I could do you a solid and share at least.
      * I’m still not joining you tonight.
      * Waste the best four years of your night, locked away! All alone! With no one to keep you warm…
      * That’s not true, Genny’s here.
      * Haha, Joanne. This is why you’re the smart one.
    * T-minus 8 ¼ hours until Joanne’s final final exam—Charisse brings actual friends up. 
      * Coming to escape the ever-growing noise and another round of beer pong, Debbie, Kendra, and heaven forbid, Mary Wilson
      * Mary Wilson lived down the hall and was confirmed to be at least not straight and had the craziest big brown eyes
      * That being said, if anyone could play it cool it was Joanne
      * She managed to rip her attention from her notes to entertain them for twenty minutes or so, before effectively kicking everyone, including Mary Wilson, back out.
      * Sweet, sweet silence, and likely, bed soon.
    * T-minus 7 ½ hours until Joanne’s final exam—Mary Wilson knocks on Joanne’s door as she goes to shut out the light 
      * Hey listen, I know you’re real busy, but I’m leaving for home tomorrow sometime before noon and I didn’t know when I was going to get to say bye to you before break.
      * Actually y’know I just finished studying really and honestly what’s an 8 AM final right? Just, uh, hold on to that goodbye for a little bit I’m going to join you guys downstairs I think.
    * T-minus a half an hour before the final, final exam for Dr. Clark, notorious for destroying GPAs with his vengeful finals—Joanne wakes up in a beanbag chair, wearing a different shirt than she remembered having on before, Mary Wilson’s head on her shoulder, in Kendra Fessler’s and Jen Lucas’ dorm room with the worst headache she’s ever had ever in her entire life 
      * At least that’s what she remembers
    * Recalling this story years later, over a few drinks at the Life Café, Joanne admitted she had a faint memory of waking up, but otherwise couldn’t remember anything else about the day until she woke up again at 3 in the afternoon, completely unsure of whether or not she had ever made it to her final. 
      * Panicked, she had asked everyone she knew, and no one was completely sure, and with a heavy heart, went home for Christmas break, wondering when she should tell her parents that she missed her Advanced Community Law final. 
        * Boy oh boy, was it terrifying.
        * So unbelievably, deeply anxiety-inducing that Joanne wondered if she should just quit all together.
      * Lo and behold, a few days later she found out she had not only made it to the final, but had done well enough in the class to score an internship the following semester with Dr. Clark, who had applauded her final essay as one of the best he had read in ages.
      * She wondered if her most of her new friends, compromised of one fellow academic, a few drop-outs and a few high school grads, got the gist of her story when it was all said and done, judging by the blank looks on everyone’s faces.
      * Breaking the silence first, was Mimi.
      * “Holy fucking shit, that’s so wild!”
    * (Mark never worried about drunk Joanne.)



\---

Benny, a reliable drunk, though not much of a drinker especially these days, used to be just the happiest guy once he knocked a few down. Benevolent even, the normally rationally pessimistic, mild but sharp kid from Queens suddenly thrived on all things novel and thought he had the answer to world peace on the tip of his tongue when drunk. Everyone was a friend and available for a quiet, polite conversation on gentrification, for example, even and especially the people he didn't know yet. 

\--

The thing about it was that Tom Collins had been some running inside joke in the 1870's. That old rivals or peers used to instigate one another by asking if the other had seen Tom Collins, because he'd been talking shit just around the corner. Basically, the provoked would run off ready to throw down with this nonexistent Tom Collins, but everyone else would be in on the joke-there was no Tom Collins. At least not in this part of town. 

(Collins was the supposed Hemingway drunk—meaning outside of a greater tendency towards laughter, hiccups, and slurred words, his normal calm and good-natured personality was relatively intact. It was a nice consistency.)

See, still about, wouldn't it be funny if that was still a thing? That maybe instead of a specific kind of cocktail no bar in Boston ever seemed to serve, Tom Collins was still a joke between friends, between knowing strangers, between people creating simple connections. Between any of these people in the pub at 5 o'clock on a Friday: a family having a dinner with their grandparents, teenage son absentmindedly nodding at his rambling grandmother, a group of three-piece suits bitching about their wives, the bartenders chatting up their weekend plans. 

(A sense of connectedness—what if someone said Collins' name? What if someone knew his name? What if someone asked his name? Even just said hello, made eye contact? Leaving New York had Collins feeling somewhat relieved and also guilty finally to be away from the smog and fingernail scratches on the floor and the click of a lock at 4 in the morning and the smell of someone else's perfume, but all of those things had meant friends and sometimes not friends but they had meant people and no one in Cambridge knew Collins. No one, that is, other than his students in his gen ed courses, his coworkers and their glassy eyes, and his cousins closer to the heart of the city who hadn't wanted to speak with him since they had, y'know, found out. So, when you add up all those people, no one in Cambridge knew Collins.)

Collins drank alone. Collins had never drank alone before, but he knew now that he hated it.

(Collins didn't hate being alone. Collins loved being alone. Being alone meant he could get something done and work and think with just himself and sometimes he was his own best company. Greece, with only himself to truly impress, had been a highlight. Trips out to Coney Island, riding his bike as a 16 year-old for hours until he saw the shore. Walking to the library in grade school. Making it all the way from Harlem to college. They had been adventures and opportunities and they were good. Drinking alone in a bar on a rainy Friday afternoon wasn't exactly good. Being HIV positive, knowing it would come up sometime after someone asked his name, wasn't exactly good. Because eventually, it would be just him.)

(A propensity towards individualism becomes daunting when it's supposed that's your only option: actual reality. Virtual reality: if a man drinks alone in a bar and no one knows who he is or what is name is, is he really there?)

Collins drank til he had hiccups and an idea, tipped the bartender, and walked home. 

-

Angel was the reckless drunk. If Joanne became MaGyver while drunk, Angel became Bruce Lee, so she thought. Angel, being a very self-confident gal most days anyways, seemed to come to a sharp realization every time she shattered the glass ceiling of her drinking limit that she could do anything. Entirely in heels, she had a history of sliding across tables or down banisters, streaking on dares, and getting into, as Collins liked to call them, “verbal altercations”. She suddenly approached everyone and everything with a ferocity rather than a fierceness that only seemed to come to heel after a rolled ankle. Mark was never sure when to cut her off—she blurred the line between sobriety on a wild night and utter drunkenness too well before it became too late. Thankfully, she was normally more invested in group outing, making sure everyone was having a good time, than she was getting shitfaced. 

Mimi was the aggressive, rough and tumble, constantly ready to fight drunk. She never started aggressive—it was Mimi, after all. No, it starts when her light, airy, lively laugh turns into an obscene sort of cackle. From there, every breath taken is at risk for a caustic, sarcastic, snide commentary, muttered in half-English, half-Spanish between sidelong glances of judgment in true Catholic-raised fashion. It was generally a group effort to get Mimi to take it easy for the night and moreover, not pick a fight with the resident cat-caller or the reluctant bartender, but she certainly had a group looking out for her—between Mark’s eye for potential trouble, Roger’s advantage of being at least two heads taller than her tiny figure, and Collins’ ability to diffuse “verbal altercations” like most people put on pants. Not to their advantage—Angel, encouraging Mimi's righteous fury in less-broken Spanish.


	5. they may be blind, or worse, vultures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: some fairly explicit deaths, drugs, some fights, homophobia. Shit gets real in this chapter, sorry it's long and sad but I needed to touch on all of The Squad. I swear there's a happy chapter eventually.

For a long while there, it had been something special. The group of them had shared something special, something warm. Days for Maureen had been spent working, sure _whatever,_  but also in efforts at the local women’s shelter, arm in arm with April and some of her friends, in trying whatever creative endeavor she could get her hands on—painting, dancing, she even tried picking piano up again. Nights had been spent hand in hand with Mark at short film showings, snapping and nodding at Benny’s slam poetry outings, screaming and dancing at Well-Hungarian shows, and fists raised at ACT UP alongside Collins, among other things. There was so much to do and so much to look forward to and look at and think about and life had been good. 

However, even the most smoldering of bonfires become coals and ash, and soon that pervasive kind of cold crept underneath Maureen’s fingernails as she slid on her too-tight rubber gloves without her really noticing until they had turned blue. Running on very little sleep and a whole lot of Cuban coffee, she showed up to work the Saturday brunch at the women's shelter, regardless, hoping to clear her head a little bit (Shove it down, Maureen), to force herself to function (Everything's fine, Maureen), to inspire herself creatively (It's all going to be okay, Maureen), to actually allow her touch to be helpful (There's no problem, Maureen). She went about her work at the brunch, sweeping floors and scooping eggs onto plates, not remembering what used to be, not remembering where and with whom she had spent the night with last night, not thinking about much at all. 

For a longer while there, Maureen had only heard about the horror stories from her fellow volunteers about some of the more desperate situations that they had been in or seen. It'd been years since she first started volunteering and never once had she been the victim of anything more than a few nasty comments and maybe a few tugged heartstrings upon seeing young kids quietly desperate for food. The brunch had ended almost a half hour ago and she was just supposed to be taking the garbage bags out to the dumpster. February was always depressingly cold in New York, always the worst month of the year according to Mark, but Maureen figured it would just be a moment, and didn't bother to grab her coat. Stuck still, feeling entirely blank, Maureen dragged two heaving, smelly bags behind her and tossed them into the steel crate when she noticed a boot. A worn, old boot, laying in the snow, just barely in sight from behind the dumpster. Initially, she thought that that was just Manhattan living, but ever the nosy, she took a few more steps to really get the angle view. The boot was connected to a foot, which was connected to a man's body, huddled under a thin layer of snow. 

Maureen went still, feeling if anything, very small and young. "Sir? Sir, are you okay?"

No response, of course.

She crouched down, reaching out to his wrist to maybe grab a pulse. "Excuse me?"

His hands were the most frigid, most numb she had ever felt, with no pulse to be found. His fingernails were blue. 

(And you thought you were cool and edgy and some kind of radical activist who was gonna help people, Maureen. Except it was never really about the people, was it?)

Maureen threw up in the dumpster before running back inside to call for someone. 

\---

He didn't know it yet, but they would get married next March. It would rain considerably, which he was assured by the priest that it was a sign of good luck. Benny, childishly, would wonder if that good luck might cancel out the bad luck that came with him waking up that morning beside Allison, thus effectively seeing the bride before the ceremony. Benny wouldn't say anything, knowing better than to push his luck as a Baptist (note: an atheist) at a Catholic wedding.

Allison's niece, their flower girl, would tug on his suit jacket until they were at eye level to ask Benny before the guests began to arrive if he knew why they put the rings on their left finger. 

"No, I don't. Do you know why they put the wedding rings on the left finger?"

"Because th-the vein leads to the heart! The blood vein on that finger leads to the heart!"

Technically, all veins lead to the heart, but it was a sweet idea, so Benny wouldn't correct her. 

He couldn't have predicted it, but Allison Grey, typically 10 minutes early, would be 10 minutes late to her own ceremony, because her "something borrowed" broke (something she would whisper to him during the first reading). Looking her up and down, all sandy blonde hair and content brown eyes and freckles dancing on shoulders and simple beauty, Benny had no idea what was the new, the borrowed, the blue at all, so he would figure at the end of it, she was here and fine and still wanted to marry him, which was really the end goal. Everything else was details, traditions, details, but Benny had always aired on the side detail-oriented, for better or for worse, and Allison was unwavering in her respect for the traditions before her.

For example, the bride wears white, not as a purity thing, no, but as a wealth thing. Only rich people used to be able to clean white garments, and everyone else just wore their best dress (note: the difference between Allison's brand new white dress, to be worn once, and the tux he would borrow from his brother, fitted just right for someone else). Also, the veil, way back, was supposed to ward off evil spirits (note: baggage?) but, naturally, became another indicator of wealth, as in the bigger the veil, the richer the bride (note: Allison would choose a veil of thin, flowery lace, but he would suppose less was more). Something they would forget: the sixpence in the left shoe of the bride, for economic prosperity (note: not that they really needed it).

Note, a few exceptions: her poor, black boyfriend, whose C+ finance degree scraped him a job as a bank teller, for now, and whose A+ poetry degree got him a few publishes in magazines that she had never heard of, but bragged about anyway, on his behalf. Also the rice, fuck the rice, no rice. Note, no exceptions: Allison begging him not to invite his artist friends to the wedding, because they'd scare her family who already looked at him kind of funny, she couldn't explain it, and Benny obliging without argument. Also the wedding party: Allison had five girls she would want as bridesmaids, but Benny only had one brother, and Allison only had one brother, meaning he had to call up three other cousins of his. Two, he liked, the other, not as much.

He didn't know now, but he would actually have fun. His expectations would be low, as they were for any large family gathering, but between the dancing and the food and the bride, he would be satisfied. Especially so, taking a break at a back table, finally trying the hors d'oeuvres, watching the rest of the guests party cheek to cheek on the makeshift dance floor of the Grey Estate through the flower centerpieces. Allison would choose lilies for her bouquet and for her bridesmaids bouquets and for the centerpieces, which was fine by him, they got the job done, but he was pretty sure lilies were also the flowers that filled his childhood home when his grandfather passed away. However, she would also choose similarly shaded belladonnas, which would be interesting to him, as he was also pretty sure those were once used as a poison, but he wouldn't be able to recall.

\--

[First shot: The gymnasium of the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center, which was decorated from dingy ceiling to roll-out dance floor in dazzling golds and blues as best as could be done for Mark's bar mitzfah. Just about every single person Mark knew was either surrounding him in circles, tapping their toes and beginning to join hands, or else taking advantage of the open bar in the corner. His uncles and a few cousins were adjusting their holds on the well-carved wooden legs below him as "Hava Nagila" began to pick up speed. Zoom in on Mark, at the age of 13, very pale and very small and rail-thin, complete with yamaka and thick, 70's-style glasses, gripping the handles of the wooden chair in which he was seated until his knuckles went white, noticing each and every face that surrounded him from the center of the room. Some craggy, some full, some dressed to the nines and some in hand-me-down Oxfords and ties, until he rested upon Cindy, a few years older, also pale, also rail-thin, his camera turned off next to her purse on the table.]

[Jump shot: Mark telling Maureen he was in love with her, had been in love with her for years and years and zoom in on her expression and kissing him like she wanted to for years and years. Zoom in on Roger's ferocious excitement, flipping on bedroom lights at 2 AM, throwing down a wad of cash and jumping back and forth between Mark's and Benny's dorm beds because the band got a gig at CB-GBs. Jump shot: Collins disappearing for a Saturday and coming back that night with bag of Chinese food, a new bruise, a homemade knit cap that he did not leave with, and a story that, zoom in, made him laugh and laugh and laugh. Jump shot: Benny weaving words faster and making connections smarter than anyone had seen and getting published in a few zines in the area before putting his favorite, zoom in on a face of accomplishment, printed in the Village Voice on the fridge.]

[Scene: Mark sitting up at 3 AM, waiting, it was the end of April, April 29th, and he was dead tired, his eyes drooping, his heart sunk as far back into his chest, it felt like it was holding onto his spine for dear life. One hand was tapping the arm of the couch, the other, itching to both examine and keep it's distance from the evidence sitting in his pocket. Enter: Roger, twitchy, post-gig, also seemingly bone-dead tired, but also probably coming down from a high. They exchanged a few simple greetings, lacking warmth and eye contact, and Mark almost didn't speak, waiting until Roger was half-way to the bathroom before he said anything.]

Mark: You really sold your Fender?

Roger: _(distant)_ Huh?

Mark: _(attempted nonchalance)_ Found the stub from the pawn shop laying on the bathroom floor's all. You sold it?

Roger: _(turning around, going to lean on the mouth of the hallway)_ Yeah, like months ago, so what? 

Mark: _(perplexed)_ The guitar you use, for your band?

Roger: Josh has a guitar too, I'd been using that for a while anyway, 'cause I kept forgetting this one...

Mark: That was like, the first big purchase, Roger. I was there when you bought it. You were always doting on that thing, you _love_ that guitar...

Roger: _(shrugs, nearly smiling)_ Whatever Mark, clearly you loved it more than I did. If you're so worried about it, why don't you go buy it for yourself?

[Jump shot: Mark hurling himself from the wooden chair to bolt to his sister's table. A quick exchange— _boychick, yente—_ a swig from her hidden flask, before snatching the camera and running back through the crowd just in time. Jump shot: Mark, one arm hooked under the arm of the wooden chair, another gripping his camera as the music started again. Zoom in on his laughing face, zoom in on the scattered faces of friends and relatives and community members in the crowd. Zoom in on his beaming parents' faces. Zoom in on noses and teeth and wrinkles and eyes.]

Mark: _(slowly)_ What'd you do with the money?

Roger: _(almost immediately defensive)_ What?

[Jump shot: Mark, last year, telling his parents he was dropping out of the school he had begged them to let him apply to senior year because he was stifled and stressed over grades and points and not the actual work at hand. Jump shot: Mark, this year, asking his parents if they had maybe kept the money they would've used for tuition that year? Because? Because he had two friends, two dear friends, who kind of maybe needed to consider rehab. Just in case things got bad since they didn't have any money and zoom in on the disappointment and the shame in his parents' faces. Zoom in on the rage in his fathers' eyes and the heartbreak in his mothers'. Zoom in on worry lines and eyebrows and tears and red cheeks.]

Mark: _(slower, bitter)_ What. Did you do. With the money.

Roger: It wasn't worth _that_ much.

Mark: Bullshit, Rog. That thing was immaculate.

Roger: _(Trying to play it off)_ It was old. 

Mark: It would've went for a couple hundred at least. In fact,  _(Mark checked the receipt stub, sitting in his pocket)_ four hundred and fifty dollars. What'd you do with the money?

Roger: _(clearly searching for an answer, scoffing and sputtering)_ Used it for food one night for the band...

Mark: _(piquing an eyebrow)_  Hundreds of dollars on food for the band? Instead of, I dunno, food for us? Maybe paying us back for covering your ass whenever you needed a loan? 

Roger: Y'know, why you gotta be so fuckin' nosy, Cohen? I'm not your fuckin' child? I can do whatever the fuck I want and I don't have to answer to you.

[Jump shot: being 13 years old and having a fire underneath his ass and a light bulb going off above his head every other moment and he was so smart once. Jump shot: being 22, sorry, 23 years old and working as a waiter alongside still students with fires stronger than his ever were and enough light bulbs for their parents, for their friends, for the poor, for the whole damn world to take and consider and use. Zoom in on having nothing to show for himself. Zoom in on his friends, suddenly otherwise. Zoom in on the sweating and shivering, the darting, distant eyes and blank, bitter faces, the muted, repetitious conversations, the occasional homeless stranger spending the night on the nights they were actually home, being very, very thin, and Mark had felt an ache like his best friend had been not really different but something akin to gone for a while now. Zoom in on Mark's grim, pale face, finding a suspiciously full sock under Roger's mattress and realizing that it wasn't full of money.] 

Mark: Sure. Fine. But I shouldn't have to put up with this.  _(pulls from his pocket but one baggie from Roger's stash of smack, and lays it down on the coffee table)_

Roger: _(indignant)_ That's not mine.

Mark: Don't _fucking_ lie to me, Roger. 

Roger: Why the fuck does it matter what I say if you're just gonna go through my shit anyway?

Mark: _(rising to his feet, feeling the heat rise with him)_ So it _is_ yours? 

Roger: _(pissed)_ Oh my god, Cohen, sit down.

Mark: _(blatantly sarcastic, walking slowly towards Roger)_ This explains everything, God, it's almost, I dunno, _amazing_. You and April were really quiet about it all for a bit there. I feel like this should've been some kind of big reveal if, I dunno, we hadn't all seen it coming. 

Roger: _(puffs up his chest, makes one step forward and suddenly he and Mark are but a few inches away from one another)_ Back the _fuck_ up, Cohen.  _(he gives a push)_

Mark:  _(does not falter)_  I know why you guys got kicked out of your last complex, what you've been trying to pull over my head and our _friends'_ heads, and I swear to God, Roger: clean up for real this time or I'm reporting _that (gesturing to the baggie)_ and the rest of it to the cops, and _they_ can clean you up.

Roger: _(almost laughing)_ You would not fucking call the cops? On me? On _April_? _(suddenly spiteful)_ Are you fucking kidding me?

Mark: If that's what it takes to stop the lying and the stealing and the fact that you two are killing yourselves—

Roger: Yeah, because they'd really fucking swoop in and save the day, Mark—

Mark: She's been sick as a dog lately, Roger, and you know it and you know it's because of _this—_

Roger: Stop acting like you give two fucking shits about her at all. We don't even have a problem, there's literally no problem here—

Mark: As you say, high as a kite _—_

Roger: _(suddenly very quiet)_ You're just pissed, Cohen, because I'm fucking enjoying my life and getting somewhere _without_ you, while you're busy blowing a couple grand out of the goddamn water only to drop out and be a whiny little shit about every-

[Mark's fist collides with the right side of Roger's face, where there will more than likely be a solid black eye in a few short hours. Zoom in as the blood rushes up. Zoom in as none of the other loft tenants come to check what the commotion is. Roger lands on the floor. Mark stands, satisfied, and watches him wince as he pats his face gingerly.]

Mark: _(offers his hand to Roger)_ You have a colossal gig in some 18 hours. Fuck it up for yourself, rot in prison, I don't give a shit. If you decide otherwise, let me know.

Roger:  _(scrambling to his feet, swatting Mark's hand away, ready to stomp off)_ Damn, I almost forgot about today. Happy birthday, you miserable cunt. 

[New scene: the morning of April 30th. The loft is quiet and they are hungover from celebrating the band signing a recording deal. Maureen went to free herself from leather pants, Collins made it as far as the couch, and Roger went to look for April. Zoom in on the note Mark found first. Zoom in on the screams. Zoom in on Roger's panic, trying to pull his girlfriend’s body back up to the murky red surface, April’s bottomless eyes, the overflow of crimson over the edge of the tub, and the way they both very suddenly looked like nothing more than skeletons. Close on the end of April.]

-

The first couple months Mimi spent on her own felt like a fairy-godmother granted dream. Running as far as a bus ticket could get her, Mimi was rolling in all she felt she had been denied in her days of rolling plaid skirts and getting detention, giving her allowance to the church under the gaze of her father, and praying in gratitude for dollar store, pseudo-Mexicana meals. Her shitty loft wasn’t much, and she didn't remember a lot of the intricacies of the passing days, admittedly, but she had big dreams and was gonna get somewhere big sometime soon.

The next few months, closing in on a year felt like the fine print on a contract with Rumpelstiltskin. Her wish to get out of the barrio had come true, and at what cost? She was damn near broke, damn near starving, and according to the vulture-looking doctor at the women’s shelter, HIV-fucking-positive. Mimi didn't recall the conversation exactly-she was hung over as shit on top of whatever cold nonsense had been making her feel cold and stuffy for a while there. It wasn’t anything much, but she had nice tits and well-shaped hips, and could get into any bar long enough to forget she wanted to be buried alive. Big dreams. Somewhere big, sometime soon. It was fine print. 

The day Mimi realized she had made it to 19 years old, she thought of Dom, and it fucked her up a little bit. She went out with some of her coworkers and their friends that night and had a great, _great_ time instead of thinking about it. Eat the body, drink the wine, and be cleansed. 

That is, until she got home the next morning, and finally got a real hard long _look_ at herself. Mimi’s search for power, for autonomy, for magic eventually became a preparation for revenge, for defense against any man who had ever laid one of their too many hands on her. She wondered if she was alone in this journey, dabbing ochre powder over a black eye, if the women she had grown to know and love figured this whole solitude thing out much sooner than she. If they hadn’t been doing it—the makeup—for joy, had they been doing it as protection? Eye shadow, runes, mascara, charms. She recalled a few memories of her father’s interactions with her mother—words that were a bit too spicy, kisses that were a bit too rough, hugs and holds that were a bit too sharp. She recalled her cousins, her friends, and the fear in their lives. Why didn’t the other women tell her? Why didn’t anyone tell her the truth about how to protect herself, about why she had to? Why didn't anyone tell her _anything_? Mimi didn’t want to defend herself, she wanted to live. She didn’t want to be helpless, she wanted to make these men, at work or otherwise—if that was what you wanted to call them—helpless beneath her stone heel and winged gaze. For a few months, she felt like a black cat, lost without a coven, casting spells and the occasional curse with her physicality and appearance. She thought of holiness as the other, but kept her rosary above her bed yet, watching the beads rattle against the wall in the warm June breeze, refusing to pray. 

Her mother called that morning, said happy birthday, asked naively if she was still going to mass on Sundays. _Milagros Maria—Mimi, chica—cuídate, por favor._ No mention of her father, who didn't want to hear about her; a mention of her brother got the phone hung up on her. 

\--

The thing about it was that Collins was a big guy, had always been a big guy, and truthfully had no reason getting mugged in alleys as much as he did. The big, black man/"I literally have no money I'm a starving college student" defense should've balanced out the gay, computer nerd, philosophy activist targets on his back, y'know, but like death and taxes, every few months since he was but a wee boy in Harlem, a few faceless hooligans left him bleeding against a brick wall without fail.

(Normally a philosophy student, Collins had been thinking a bit about computers lately. Well, a lot about computers lately. One of the 6 other people in this summer class he was taking had struck up a conversation with him about the coding class she had taken last semester, about how computers were going to be the next great frontier of learning and creation and frankly Collins was a little bit nosy in regards to things he didn't know enough about. He did the logical thing and spent his Fourth of July, not taking the train home, but instead in the library, checking out whatever references he could find on computer coding. Strike one: instead of leaving when the librarian asked him to, he hung out in the bathroom until she had locked up and continued researching.)

Squeezing his way through a window and cutting through Washington Square Park, it had been the kind of heat that persisted on his upper lip and sent a single line of sweat down his back. Regretting the books he was unable to check out, Collins walked at a comfortable pace and talked out loud to himself to fill the silence, the new words and phrases he had learned so he wouldn't forget them.

(Strike two: "function call", "URL", "command", "kit" was what Collins heard instead of the soft trail of boots just behind him.)

Collins' own utterances of vocabulary and definitions became overwhelmed by a sea of choice words and slurs that at this point, did not impress him, but were certainly exhausting. He could run, but these guys were faster, and it wasn't long 'til he was being dunked in and out of the fountain, his pockets ransacked and rummaged through, the sweat and the blood mixing until he couldn't feel which was which on his forehead as he sat panting against stone.

(Strike three: but only a sophomore at this point, Collins had made the poor mistake of being openly gay and walking alone. Or black and walking alone? Black and gay and walking alone? Back from the library? Alone? Some combination of these? Or something. In the back of his mind he thought maybe he should consider taking a self-defense class to learn how to throw this weight around. He had to admit, while the whole thing had happened entirely too quickly and in a way that made it seem like a quick interruption in his thoughts, and he was, frankly, angrier that he had lost his train of thought than losing the 30 bucks in his pocket.)

He had developed it recently, and would use, post-future muggings: a checklist to assess if he was okay, or at least well enough to walk home. Recalling the list in the first place was probably a good sign, so he was still, reluctantly, mentally present. Wiggling his toes, then curling his ankles, then kicking his legs, Collins figured at worst, he'd have some killer bruises in the morning. Next were his fingers, some of which were definitely bleeding, then the wrists, which were tingling with anticipation for a far worse pain, and then his arms, probably going to be okay. Sniffing, his nose was definitely bleeding and hurt like a motherfucker, but running his tongue over his teeth, he still had a full smile, meaning on the whole, it could've gone worse. Afraid of the sharp jolt in his abdomen as he crawled towards his discarded keys a few feet away, the evening's holiday fireworks had begun to go off in the distance. 

-

  * Joanne’s first custody case, she lost. 
    * It hadn’t been a particularly unique or eventful case in all honesty. It was big enough to suck up her August but not big enough to really gain any place of reserve in her mind. 
      * Single mother of two, aged 4 years and 18 months, losing joint custody with the children’s father in favor of him gaining full custody. 
      * Details of the case were a blur, maybe because it was generally undecipherable from future cases she would take on or because Joanne had a habit of repressing the memories of her losses, but what she can recall was but a simple, isolated conversation with her client. 
        * Joanne could console on the surface, but struggled with her words when it was time to deviate from the script. 
        * It was weird to think of herself as so far down her legal rabbit hole that she found it invitingly easy to lawyer her way around emotional moments, rather than face them, genuinely.
        * She hoped, much like her courtroom face, she was convincing.
      * I can't believe this happened, I can't believe he won!
      * I know ma’am, I know, it’s hard, I understand.
      * You understand? 
        * That was Joanne’s biggest mistake.
        * “I understand.” 
          * See, in the script, they tell you not to say that you understand when someone else is grieving or otherwise suffering in a particularly traumatizing way.
          * Sometimes people can get away with it with little to no repercussions, it is a common phrase used to express empathy.
          * Losing custody of two children to a villainous ex-boyfriend definitely can produce a sense of grief, absoultely.
        * You understand? You don’t understand shit: you lawyers are all the same, coming up in here like you’re trying to help us down on the bottom when you get to go home to your cushy, expensive ass apartment and call your rich mommy and daddy and recline on that Harvard education and never in your life go through what the rest of us are going through daily to stay alive. You are like every other white man in this goddamn building. You aren’t doing anyone any goddamn favors but your fucking self. 
          * Some key words and phrases: 
            * Don’t understand shit
            * You lawyers
            * Trying to help
            * Cushy, expensive ass apartment
            * Rich mommy and daddy
            * Recline on that Harvard education
            * Never
            * The rest of us
            * Stay alive
            * Every other white man
            * Aren’t doing anyone any goddamn favors
            * Your fucking self
          * And how was she supposed to respond with anything other than a mouth wide open, to match her office door as the woman stormed out and away.
          * Eventually she found it in her to close her office door, loosen the tie that had become too hot to wear in her boiling office, and call her dad, to talk about anything other than what had happened, if only to pretend like her client hadn't had a point.
    * She didn't hear anything about the woman, her ex-boyfriend, or the kids ever again. Not unusual for most cases, given another reason why it probably only made it's way back into her consciousness every few months or so. 



  
\--

As far as bright kids went, Angel was presented to potential adoptive parents as just the absolute brightest. His grades were damn near immaculate, and despite a minor inability to keep still at any given moment and a slight propensity to forget specific instructions, he was a joy to be around. That smile lights up a room, they said. Get a little meat on his bones, a little space to throw that energy around, he’ll be gift. Angel couldn’t even disagree—he could do it all, he assessed. Whatever you want me to be, I could do it. Of course, at 12, he knew better than to expand on his exact implications. Brownie or Boy Scout. Dancer or drummer. Pretty in pink or rough-and-tumble. Anything to get adopted, anything. It was enough to get his foster families to be at the very least, amused with him for a time, or at least until they discovered Angel's-erm- _habits_ and drop-kicked her back into the system. To make a long story short: before Angel was Angel Dumott-Schunard, but after Angel was Angel Rubio, Angel was lovingly bestowed with the name of Angel Valentine, of the House of Valentine, child of the drag balls. 

Angel didn't do a lot of talking about that time in her life. Angel didn't do a lot of talking about any times in her life. She strove, actually, to be one of those people who other people point at and say "for all the things she says, she says nothing about herself". If that kind of phrase was followed up with "and she looks fine as hell doing it", then Angel figured that would be when she made it. But, but, but, influencing that, her every move in day to day life, her very self and soul, was certainly her early adolescence spent sneaking out of foster homes all over the city to run around Harlem with people that looked and sounded and felt like how she saw herself. That was all she would tell the foster families and social workers and Mimi, at the beginning of their friendship. That Mimi would've loved the drama, the spectacle with a purpose, the sense of belonging, the fast times, but also the houses, and the individuals who filled no quota or expectation except mother, sister, friend, defender.

It was the first, but wouldn't be the last time Mimi heard about the balls, and Angel's participation in them, but she had been wondering, oh-so silently, why Angel wasn't in them still, if she loved them so much. 

-

Mark.

Yeah, Roger?

They have babies here too, did you know that?

Really?

Yeah like, babies whose moms were addicted to whatever the hell and kept using when they had them. There’s a whole bunch of them, just around the corner.

Mark didn’t answer, just watched Roger inhale and exhale on his anxiety cigarette—that despite his previously typical concoction of smells and fluids he allowed into his body as per the norm of rock 'n' roll, Roger never took to the taste of cigarettes until he was nervous "for the sake of his voice". Mark had known and brought a pack to share during visitor's hours, watching the October leaves fall and a few other in-patients play basketball through the wire fence. For a moment, and at this angle, Mark looked distant, like a complete and utter stranger, and the two of them were nothing more than two unrelated individuals, waiting.

We pass them on the way outside, depending on which nurse is leading us outside, and sometimes you can see the newborns through the window in the hall and like…Mark—they’re so small. So small. And they cry and cry and shake and cry. They were all shaking and not like normal babies squirm sometimes, y’know? It was their legs and they just wouldn't stop. Like they've been on Earth for almost no time at all and they already have to focus on not dying and they don't know what the fuck is happening to them. Like what the hell, y’know? It’s fucked up.

Mark nodded slowly, taking a drag himself. 

Roger blinked a few times, rapidly. It’s real fucked up.


	6. this giving up is not repenting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't mean to get all fanfiction.net on you guys, but hello, and thanks for your patience with me and my lack of updates. I've gotten a lot of great feedback on this fic and it's all overwhelmingly appreciated--you guys are the best!!
> 
> I figured this would be a great time to point out that just about every character's written sections, were you to put them in the order they appear in a chapter, would be linear, except for Collins and Angel. Made sense for some reason. 
> 
> As far as triggers go, this chapter has a Roger section, which isn't necessarily explicit, but is generally unsettling in regards to body/death things.

  * ~~They met on a Thursday night, right on time~~
  * ~~Joanne hadn't been up for the Clit Club, truthfully~~
  * ~~Her skin was~~
  * ~~The air was~~
  * ~~Joanne didn't think she'd ever meet someone~~
  * Maureen was made up and devised almost entirely of contradictions and this was apparent from the moment they had met.
  * She walked like she was lascivious and sensual but smiled and laughed earnest and child-like.
  * She talked like she was a blessing and a gift, kissed like she was starving for attention.
  * She looked hot and stared cold and spun and spun and spun.
  * Joanne liked this girl. Joanne didn't think she'd ever like someone this much, but oh boy, did she like Maureen Johnson.



-

Shortly after swearing off any man who wanted anything from her and focusing primarily on living her goddamn life ~~thanks~~ , Mimi met Benny, wandering the aisles of the local grocer somewhat aimlessly in a three piece suit.  He was sturdy. He was smart. He was a deeply and tightly wound spring that frankly, just wanted something to go his way. Benny cracked her up, not because he was actually funny ~~since he wasn't~~ —he thought he was funny and Mimi was used to laughing regardless—but because he was so overwhelmingly willing to shower her with attention and praise, not because he wanted anything from her, but because he meant it.

So when her apartment building kicked everyone out, Benny offered a place for her—a place he owned. 

"Listen, if you ever get into a bind, there are these two guys right upstairs," Benny motioned up, vaguely past the ceiling. Mimi watched the ring on his left hand as he talked—this apartment was his apology for lying to her. "They're not my biggest fans, but they wouldn't have the heart to turn you back out if you needed help."

Mimi scoffed. ~~The last thing she needed was someone else to be on the look out for.~~  "I'll keep that in mind," she said, unimpressed. 

\--

The thing about it was that Collins thought maybe teaching would give him a fuller sense of normalcy than the in and out, give and take of the waves of grief he had been feeling since Angel died ~~and wow oh wow did he miss Angel~~. Rolling his eyes after yet another painfully constructed thesis statement, Collins almost regretted taking back up his position at NYU that had been left for him. ~~Almost.~~

(Mimi, on the more and more frequent occasions that she felt well enough to venture from her bedroom and into the loft, seemed to be quietly getting closer and closer to his shoulder and the books and papers and sighs over it all. She started asking questions, and she had good, genuinely curious ones that extended much farther than the typical "Will this be on the test?" or the "I have no idea what you just said" question-not-question.)

The best part about it was that Mimi remembered everything with such clarity and accessibility that the eventual debates became some of the most fun Collins had had in ages. Because the philosophy of life and actual life, as Mimi could attest to, were two almost completely different experiences, and what works theoretically may not be so true in praxis. So unable to apply the lingo Collins so trainedly spat, Mimi asked, what was the point? What was so different among all of these theories that these old dead guys had to argue about them? What did they ever do for anyone? Once the questions seemed to be paragraphs long, Collins said if she wanted to, she could come sit in on his class ~~because it would honestly be so nice to have someone actually gain something from his 'anarchistic idealistic philosophic mumbo jumbo'~~. Mimi laughed, coughed, and laughed a little more, saying she hadn't even graduated high school, and she doubted she could keep up. 

(Roger, when he wasn't ~~finally~~ working or at least half-focused on his guitar, would just watch the two of them go at it, insisting that it was because he liked watching Mimi go off, particularly on people who weren't himself. But occasionally, he would turn to ask Joanne for clarification on a word used or a point made. Joanne, shrugging, said she was a lawyer, not a philosopher, Roger, and not all college educations are ~~created equal~~ quite the same. Collins, sometimes late at night, could hear Mimi relay what she had learned, with her regained enthusiasm hushed to a whisper, to Roger, who would ask of her a few questions she hadn't quite developed an answer for.)

Collins had been teaching sporadically since he was a grad school student, but never had he been filled with such a joy as watching two familiar, messy figures slip into the back of the lecture hall during his 200-level.

(He knew this job wasn't going to be the job he had when he inevitably died. He didn't know how he knew that, or what else, exactly, he was planning on doing. He had some ~~restaurant owner, writer, musician, cook~~  fantasies sitting in the back of his mind, sure, but momentarily, they seemed insignificant as this was one of the very rare times ~~rare excluding Angel, obviously~~ in Collins' life where someone ~~mom and dad, aunts and uncles~~  had really, genuinely cared ~~sisters, cousins, peers~~  to see what it was exactly that he, himself, was all about.)

In between coughs, when he would look to her out of habit, Mimi, and subsequently, Roger, would shoot him a grin and a thumbs-up  ~~and Collins really, really, actually, truly understood what it was about that girl that Angel had loved so much.~~

\---

Angel's cat, Harrison Ford, was named such because the Dumotts were really, really,  ~~embarassingly~~ into _Star Wars_ , and within a few months of being adopted, he'd skipped his first ball in forever for a "family" night, seeing the _Star Wars_ movies for the first time. And boy, oh boy, Angel had a crush on Harrison Ford. Angel wanted Harrison Ford to bench-press him, as he could probably do it. ~~Mr. Dumott~~  Dwayne agreed whole-heartedly, ~~Mr. Schunard~~  Joe scoffed that he probably could bench-press Mr. Dumott, if he had really wanted. Angel laughed, shifting her gaze between Yoda and Luke training on screen, and Joe try to show-off for his  ~~married, hetero-neighbors and his super heterosexual wife~~ boyfriend, his legal wife, and her girlfriend on the carpeted floor. Honestly, with a memory like that, what else was she supposed to name the cat when she'd got it for the first real ~~, movie-ready, suburban, snow-white~~ Christmas she'd ever had? He hadn't been a Luke Skywalker, that's for sure. 

So when Harrison slipped on an icy windowsill and fell a few stories, not onto his feet, Angel figured it was appropriate to maybe spend the night back ~~or a few~~  at the Dumotts' to bury him ~~she hated making them worry about her~~ , mourn ~~they'd tried so hard to play it cool after the diagnosis~~ , and pray that it wasn't some kind of omen ~~deaths came in threes: first her housemother, then her cat, then who~~ for the real Harrison Ford. 

Taking a few deep breaths in-between big, wet tears, ~~Mrs. Dumott~~  Carol took her hand, stroked it, saying, "oh Love, he was a dear. There's nothing to regret here, only good things to remember."

Angel, warm and toasty with a bowl of popcorn in her lap, wiped her nose, looked around the room and back to the screen, where _Episode IV_ was just starting and said, "oh my, I think you're right."

\--

Not today, not today, absolutely not fucking today because the world might decide to kill him that day and he wasn't going to take the chance.

He wouldn't phrase it like that to Mark, though. He _couldn't_ phrase it like that to Mark. Mark was too invested in Roger's health and wellness and safety  ~~which was really very interesting because Roger stopped caring long before they had found themselves in this loft and in this life~~ for Roger to respond any other way. It wasn't lying, he'd hoped. It was just trying to navigate the fine line between externally normal ~~and not thinking about smack~~  and absolutely not wanting to be seen or spoken to ~~or put a needle beneath his skin~~ ever again. So being afraid that he might run into his drug dealer and decide he needed a hit became it's too cold and the air makes me nauseous. Thinking maybe he'd see April in the bathroom again _again_ became I just really  _really_ don't want to be alone in there. Any time Mark tried to pry on an excuse, Roger pulled out the two defenses in his arsenal that he had been cognoscente enough to learn in rehab: apologizing and calmly stating that he did not want to talk about it. If those didn't work, like they hadn't today, short, bitter sentences ~~despite being a little too close to how he was on smack~~  usually got Mark off his back. So, no, he was not going outside today. Actually, he was not leaving his room today. If you wanted to get even more specific, Roger was not moving today. He tried that already. It didn't work out. Sorry about that, better luck next time. 

Someone had left the case to his acoustic sitting on his bed yesterday ~~probably to make a point~~. Roger didn't touch it ~~to also make a point~~. 

It was like this: he would instead sit curled, cold, against the door, away from Mark, Maureen, and the rest of everything, wrapped under layers of sweatshirts and blankets and socks and blankets, himself being his only defense, the weight to keep it shut from anything that might try to claw it's way inside ~~or out~~. He might fall asleep there, or might stay very awake there; it was like a game every day, seeing how much energy he had despite doing absolutely fucking nothing for the ~~five~~ , ~~six~~ , seven days he'd been back. He might try thinking, he might avoid that, and count the snowflakes floating past his window, fluttering in between buildings and out of sight, or drag his eyes up and down the black faux-leather of his guitar case. He would ultimately fail at that, and would start thinking about some of the other nameless faces he'd left behind or been left behind by at the clinic. The straw-haired woman ~~with about four teeth left~~ , the single other male there, a teenage boy  ~~who hadn't meant to get hooked on Oxycontin after an accident~~ , the round-faced, kind-looking lady with a baby downstairs, ~~also trying to get off cocaine.~~  He would think of all the people he had shared about three sentences with total, then move on to the ones he had spoken to a little bit more, before landing on the therapist he wanted to punch, or the janitor with the cool tattoo, or the cool neighbors across the street or downstairs, or the man who owned the corner store, or his grandparents, or the band, or his mom, or Collins, or Maureen, or Mark, or April.

Oh. April. Too far. Go back. ~~April~~. Back to Mark. April. Stop. April. April. ~~April~~. Rewind. Try again. 

But he couldn't. Mark paid for his few months at the clinic. Mark and his shitty side jobs, with a little help from his parents, and from his sister, and from Collins, had scrounged up enough money to pay the fees Maureen had negotiated on his behalf for the clinic. Mark did that, they all did that, despite the fact that he was a stupid fucking asshole who hadn't helped anyone with anything in months and said dumb shit all the fucking time and had stolen and destroyed anything they had that was good and lied oh God had he lied to Mark and kept lying to Mark and actually killed April oh no go back go back Mark got money for rehab because Mark thought Roger would could get better Mark was so in his fucking face all the time like he knew a damn thing about getting better when ~~Roger~~ shouldn't be getting better at all Roger should be dead ~~and will be dead~~ and —

Roger could hear the front door click. He realized he was sweating, profusely, under the weight of all the layers of clothes and fabric. The footsteps got closer. He also realized the sun had set into night now, the prickles and pins that had been rising beneath his skin were gone, and there was a spider, small and thin-legged, crawling across his guitar case. 

A knock on the door.

Mark?

Yes, Roger. You okay?

Yeah. You okay?

A pause. I'm fine. Got out of work early. Did some filming. 

Can I see?

Another pause. Yeah. Yeah, absolutely.

Cool. Give me just a second, I'll be right there. 


	7. it's a deep honoring of yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drug mentions, riot stuff
> 
> I took a lot of creative liberties with the times, figured that it's probably fine since people don't actually sing in real life and also this is fanficition

9:01 PM. Was it a bit cruel? Dropping the whole "year's-rent-or-eviction" thing on them with no prior notice? Probably. It's not like they were the only ones living there rent-free. It's not like the place was even worth rent to begin with. But his father-in-law was willing to double his own investment into CyberArts if Benny ticked a few things off his to-do list by year's end, and this protest made its way up to be the very top priority. 

9:02 PM: A few moments struggle could be worth it for them if they'd just try it. 

9:03 PM: Okay, if Mark checked the coffee tin above the fridge, and the sock drawer and maybe check the bank after the holiday, they might have three hundred dollars? And if they don't eat for a few days until he got his next pay check, they might be able to scrape a bit more, before Roger has to refill his prescription-

9:04 PM: Honestly, prison would more comfortable than living here. There's a guaranteed three meals a day. They pay for your meds in prison. It's probably kept pretty cold in there, though. Out of which orifice did Benny expect them to pull a year's worth of rent from anyway?

9:05 PM: Times like this, Mark thought about his mom; "You know what, Mark, you've done the same thing your whole life, where you run around and focus on every tiny little corner of every room in the house, and never notice anything's wrong until you step back and notice that the whole thing is on fire." 

9:06 PM: Running around now, in the dark, bumping into Roger, lighting candles, torching screenplays, it hit Mark pretty quick that they were fucked. 

9:07 PM. Collins had never been in love before, not really. He'd loved many people, and many loved him. Never romantic, but he didn't really believe that could ever be up his alley anyway, no matter how appealing it seemed on some of the lonelier nights. It was reasonable. It was fair. He wasn't mad about the hand he'd been dealt, you know. The thing about Angel was that he'd been so upfront and honest about all of it: about his AIDS and her identity and the total recognition of life's impermanence and that none of those things should prevent them from doing what felt right, right now. 

9:08 PM. It wasn't reasonable. It wasn't logical. It was _nonsensical._

9:09 PM. She certainly didn't have a thing for fixer-uppers, at least not in the literal sense of having to clean out someone's wounds, or worry about them getting a cold while traversing the streets in the bitter New York winter without a coat on. Come on. Even Angel couldn't subscribe to that cliche, and she loved Hallmark movies. 

9:10 PM. But something about it certainly felt just. Deserved? No, gifted.

9:11 PM. Maybe it was the glasses. Maybe it was the "has a big dick but doesn't brag about it" vibe. He had soft hands. Soft and gentle, but it didn't seem like he wasn't working hard. Just the opposite, even in his step seemed the gait of a good, hard-working, honest man. Or at least that's what she had to tell herself, she was bringing him to her space of living after a whole, what, 5 minutes? Normally, she liked to be wined and dined a little first-

9:12 PM. Collins? Where the hell? Was he? Mark had just talked to him on the phone, and now he was taking laps around the block. God knows he had the attention span of a goldfish sometimes but what had been so interesting that he'd just run off with the key?

9:13 PM. Goddamnit, Collins. Please be okay.

9:14 PM. _Shitfuckdamn._ "Are you still feeling okay?" _Wowouchholyshit_ Okay? He was okay. Great, actually, all things considered. Thanks for asking. How're you?

9:15 PM. "Great, actually. Thanks for asking. How're you?" _JesusMaryandJosephOwOwOw_ She couldn't help but laugh at his pain, all things considered. Exceptional. Terrific. Optimistic. Thanks for asking. 3, 2, 1, and-

9:16 PM.  _Wowouchshitdamn._ Angel had wiped his other knee one more time with the hydrogen peroxide; Collins was almost disappointed he didn't laugh again. 

9:17 PM. Wow. He was a fucking idiot. So dumb. Could he be dumber? Actually, don't answer that. 

9:18 PM. Wow. He was cute. And nervous. But nice. He kept looking at her, then looking away, you know. He'd even handed her his goddamn coat. She kept trying not to laugh, between the waves of woozy nausea; it was weird seeing this combination outside of a middle school. 

9:19 PM. WOW she's been here for like two seconds and he already brought up April AMAZING good fucking work, Davis. Nailed it. You nailed it. Great job. Ask her where you know her from one more time, I'm sure that'll make you look like less of a FUCKING-

9:20 PM. Where had she seen him before? She thinks they'd had the same dealer or something. That she'd seen him here and there and wherever the smack was for a while and then not at all. The crawling under her skin hopes he drops it soon, as she's trying to keep the conversation light while she runs with her options: when to leave, how to get him to come with, even though he wasn't budging-

9:21 PM. Where _had_ he seen her before? He wasn't just seeing April again, right? They didn't really look alike at all, it was just a vibe, or something? But there are better ways to tell a girl she's pretty than to tell her she reminds you of your dead girlfriend and you're fucking _HIV+ oh my god, Davis_ you need to be upfront-

9:22 PM. Mimi vaguely remembers a girl with him before, but now there isn't a girl. _Mimi's a girl_. Alright, alright, a girl with HIV. Fair point. Look, she'd tell him before things got too real; she wasn't fucking cruel, come on, but it's not a sin to hope for a little company on Christmas Eve and it's definitely not a sin to ask for your first conversation with someone new to, for once, not have to revolve around-

9:23 PM. The whole thing was like a game. Ha ha. See how fast he can get her out the door, how many dumb things he can do in a few minutes time. Let's go another round: which would be worse? Finding the baggie and keeping it, or finding the baggie and giving it back to her? She was getting a little too twitchy, he wanted to tell her what a huge, colossal mistake it all was, but he couldn't let Mark think for a second that he was getting back into-

9:24 PM. It was all too much like a rhythm, a back and forth, you know. A song and a dance that Mimi didn't know all the steps to yet. Granted, neither had Roger. He'd been a little anxious, but kept up anyway, and Mimi liked that. She told herself she was cutting out early because you had to leave 'em high and dry, you know, but mostly it was to get back downstairs, baggie in hand. 

9:25 PM. Every time he opened his mouth, Angel was dazzled by how smart and smooth Collins could talk, through the stinging too, and how impressed he seemed with her 10 minute make-up job. Times like this, Angel couldn't help but think of her mothers- birth mother, house mother, and the missusses Dummot and Schunard- and what they'd think of him. It wasn't a sad thought, truthfully. Laughing, she kissed his dressed knee when it was all said and done and bandaged, and said "so how're your lips then?"

9:26 PM. Oh, he was a blusher, too. Angel was so into him. 

\---

10:21 PM. Oh-ho. This was Mark Cohen. _The_ Mark Cohen. Old friend from high school and ex-boyfriend Mark Cohen. Mark Cohen the movie maker who's "just in a bit of a rut, since, well...". Mark Cohen, Mr. Suprisingly-Good-In-Bed-Good-Enough-That-Maureen-Felt-The-Need-To-Mention-It-Guy. Mark Cohen, who's scarf and coat and sweater don't even mismatch in a cool way. Mark Cohen, who can fix this stupid microphone. Mark Cohen, who'd been cheated on by Maureen. So Maureen could be with her. Shit.

10:22 PM. So, this was Joanne? Joanne Jefferson the lawyer who Maureen was "in love" with. Joanne Jefferson, the new girlfriend. Joanne Jefferson, the _girl_ friend of his ex-girlfriend. Joanne Jefferson, "emotionally and financially stable". Joanne Jefferson, who's coat looked like it was worth his last paycheck at least. Joanne Jefferson, who probably had health insurance. Joanne Jefferson, who could do anything probably, since Maureen'd dumped him to be with her. Goddamnit. 

10:23 PM. It'd just occurred to Maureen, as she was leaning over her toilet once again, that she was alone in her apartment. Which was also Joanne's apartment. Which meant Joanne wasn't home, which meant Joanne could be a few places, but likely the performance space. Where she'd told Mark to go. To patch the microphone. That Joanne couldn't patch. In the performance space. Where her current girlfriend and ex-boyfriend were told to be. Right now. By her.

10:24 PM. She hadn't considered that? All this time? Listen, she was nervous, alright?

10:25 PM. Maybe she'd better call. 

10:26 PM. Ah _shit_. 

\--

11:01 PM. _Damn_. Mimi set down her phone and cranked the Christmas music on the radio a little bit louder. She'd called at least three of her friends at this point only to get answering machines or the classic robot lady's "this number cannot be reached at this-" she really wasn't going to spend Christmas _alone_ , was she? The idea of it completely sucked ass, but listen, so did the rest of this year, and Mimi made it through alright, didn't she? Nope, it'd be alright. She'd figure something out, even if it meant barcrawling alone and maybe trying to catch up with her dealer again and waking up at 12:30 tomorrow afternoon to make pozole her damn self. 

11:02 PM. His mom thought he'd do well in a job like this, it wasn't much, but psychology degrees were generally more useful than philosophy degrees, and since Collins had such a penchant for helping others, a group therapy setting might be something he could excel at. Looking around, Collins found he didn't have much to say or share, he didn't know what he could offer, and this feeling was enough to assure him the philosophy route was certainly not the worst decision he'd ever made.

11:03 PM. Angel on the other hand, was clearly putting the "support" in the support group. Everyone else came in scared, not just Mark because he'd been late, but _everyone_ came off as ashamed, abrasive, concerned, closed-off, or at least neutral. That is, until Angel reassured them with a small comment or gesture. Magic. 

11:04 PM. She was finally walking out of the performance space, if only to grab a hot chocolate and kill some time before Maureen's performance somewhere other than this godforsaken space, when her engineer finally ~~fucking~~ showed up. Joanne did a lot of nodding, watching her rattle off excuses for her lateness before Joanne asked her to "hold that thought, please" before walking around her and out of the performance space.

11:05 PM. The song changed on the radio, to something with a spectacular guitar riff as Mimi hung up her phone once more... _hmm_. No, that wasn't such a bad idea at all, was it? Mimi smiled the smile her mom used to call devlish, knowing whatever Mimi got herself into next would probably be nothing short of mischief. Listen, there was at least one other person in the East Village all by themselves tonight, she thought to herself as she slid her kimono off and tossed it on her vanity and headed for the Captain Morgan above the fridge for a swig. Even Christmas miracles, she figured, didn't just come out of the twinkle of a bell or snowflakes on eyelashes or pixie dust; she'd have to at least try for it herself. 

-

11:48 PM. Listen, he wouldn't leave. He couldn't leave. He even if he didn't refuse, he still refused. It was a terrible idea. Staying home, when did that ever fuck anything up? Sounds like the ideal present, a night in. To: Roger, from: Roger. Merry Christmas. 

11:49 PM. Collins had gone to Santa Fe once as a kid with his family. It was the first time he'd left behind his normal haunts in Harlem to see something else beyond it all. First and foremost, the air was _clean_. It was dry, dry, dry-no one in his family ever shut up about that, not once. That and the fact there were trees in Santa Fe. One of his sisters thought it'd be all rolling desert, with maybe the occasional tumbleweed. Needless to say, she was pleasantly surprised. 

11:50 PM. Although, admittedly, it might be worthwhile to go, y'know, apologize for being a such a boorish host. That is, if he had intended to be a host in the first place? Whatever, the whole thing was fucked. He was going to stay put. Finish a song, maybe. Mope, probably. Go to bed, hopefully, while he was still pissed off and not yet depressed as hell. Sounded like a great night. Fucking awesome. 

11:51 PM. You could walk and see sky ahead of you, instead of bits of sky instead of lines and lines of skyscrapers. You could have one drink and you'd feel it as strongly as two at sea level. Art, culture, music-it was the Land of Enchantment, you know. Smelling the vague scent of urine in the corner of the subway car, he guessed they could all use a little enchantment. 

11:52 PM. That being said, she seemed genuinely upset by the fact that he didn't want to hang out with her. Well, it's not that he _didn't_ want to hang out with her, it was just that-alright, that's enough. Stop it. This wasn't even a question. 

11:53 PM. Mark had an eye for aesthetic, he'd know exactly how to make the restaurant feel right out of a movie set. Angel had some mad drumming talents, she could do the music, get some help from Roger, keep the guests warm even when the conversation went cold. Even Benny could come, spit some poetry like he did in days gone by, and then do the finances in the morning. A space for everyone. 

11:54 PM. He didn't even know which apartment was hers? He could knock on a total stranger's door. He could knock on a total stranger's door and they could be a serial killer. He could knock on a stranger's door and they could be a serial killer who would proceed to chop him up into little pieces, wrap them up with a bow, and put them back on their doorstep for Mark to find in the morning. It's what would happen. "Forget regret, or life is yours to miss?" How about missing your life because you got _murdered_? Huh Mimi?

11:55 PM. Collins wasn't the best cook, however. He had a history of setting the fire alarm off, of trying to fit a bit too much in the pan. But the food was so, so, _so_  good there-he'd probably find someone to help out. Make new friends. Create a new source of income for the local disenfranchised. That's what this was about after all. 

11:56 PM. On the other hand, Roger hadn't left their loft since he came back in November. As in, he walked up the steps for the first time after rehab, and didn't walk back down them. It'd been a month of staring at their blank walls and into their empty fridge, of moving in a way that produced the most minimal amount of sound, of wrapping himself up in as many blankets as possible the physical pressure of them all was enough to keep him _down_.

11:57 PM. The best part about Santa Fe, hands down, was being surrounded by mountains. Big desert mountains, _Sangre de Cristo_ ,  all warm coppers and tans below pink clouds and the watercolor purple-blue of the setting sky. There was something special about the sky in Santa Fe, like a few staircase steps up those mountains and you could touch the moon-Collins took a large inhale mid-sentence, and he could sense Mark and Angel do the same. 

11:58 PM. Fuck. Well, he was standing up now. He was doing that thing again, you know. Where he pretended like he was going to not do the thing he was obviously was about to do. He'd been told he was hysterically transparent, actually. He didn't think so, but here he was, terribly clear of his own bullshit: it was kinda like what his mom used to say to him: "Goddamnit Roger."

11:59 PM. They could paint the walls of the restaurant like the sunset on the inside, maybe string some Christmas lights from the ceiling like stars. Christmas was the season of giving right? They would give all year round to those who needed it. Make a secret menu and spread it around the homeless shelters. Set up a hidden room in the back with extra beds, let the folks come out and eat with the regulars in the morning. That kind of thing. Giving people the privilege of another day. 

12:00 AM. Roger anxiously patted his pants pocket one more time to make sure he hadn't forgotten the key. Alright, it was fine. Great. Just super. He pushed the door to their building open, and a sudden wave of noise came as a swift kick in the gut as he was face-to-face once again with the steaming trash heap called Avenue B. It'd been a while, long enough that he forgot exactly the sensation of being swallowed up by brick and brick of building. He just had to take a step, just one step over and-

-

1:01 AM. When the fuck did Maureen get a motorcycle? When did she learn to drive a fucking motorcycle? It'd been a little over a month; Mark was just about same-old, same-old, and here's Maureen on her _fucking motorcycle._

1:02 AM. The best part about this whole thing was looking back and forth between the stage, the vaguely sullen, vaguely curious, unwavering gaze of Mark, and the utterly perplexed but generally acquiescent look on Roger's face. At least that's what Mimi thought, anyway, but then Maureen wailed on a few more crazy notes and kept slamming on that cowbell and Mimi thought she could like this girl a lot. 

1:03 AM. Oh my god, she's screaming now. Jesus Christ. "A suicidal Mickey Mouse". Unbelievable. Gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta gotta, gotta-

1:04 AM. Those sunglasses looked so much like his own, he had to pat down his coat to make sure they weren't actually his. Benny had only gotten them at the dollar store; his mistake, clearly. 

1:05 AM. Every time Joanne listened to Maureen hit some of those high notes, well, she wasn't sure what kind of dorky expression of love she'd let herself use without being entirely tacky, but it was some sensation akin to one of those. But she couldn't be distracted, keep up with the show. Alright Joanne, just hit that button, hit the next one with the tape on it, aaaaaaaaand "swollen utter"-

1:06 AM. Did this white girl just fucking 'moo'?

1:07 AM. MOOOOOOOO! MOO! MOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! MOOOO! MOOOOOOOOOOOO!

1:08 AM. Times like this, Maureen thought of her mother, rolling her eyes and slurring in her Long Island tone "Maureen, why are we gonna pretend like you're gonna do anything different than what you've always done: you're gonna paint yourself pretty like you've done a good ol' job, and then you're gonna realize how damn bad you messed up once the paint start to chip and peel, darling. Everyone else knew before you, but you're only gonna realize once it's too late."

1:09 AM. Watching the riot play out before her, eyes trailing back to the man up by the front who hadn't gotten up yet, Maureen realized she might've fucked up. 

1:10 AM. It was like a game. Haha. Did she stay on the scaffolding, as it shook and potentially fell, or let herself down into the scene below? Joanne was never really a fan of heights to begin with, but Maureen looked so horrified-

1:11 AM. A quick head count at the telephone pole by the corner: Roger and his new friend got out okay, Angel was fine, Collins was, surprisingly, unscathed. They were gonna have to wait here a minute for Joanne and Maureen, who were otherwise really cornered... Wait a second, where was-

1:12 AM. Mark? 

\--

4:52 AM. Mark had a hard time sleeping in places that weren't his own bed in his own apartment. So despite Joanne's attempts to make them all comfortable for the night before they figured out the whole "locked-out-of-the-building-thing", somewhere between a rug and a blanket and some extra pillows and more blankets spread out on floor, this was going to be the first of many mid-sleep disturbances over the next few days, he thought. 

4:53 AM. Joanne never slept. This wasn't completely true, obviously, but she couldn't bring herself to completely fall asleep between this weird feeling of contentment of actually having friends who weren't her coworkers, and the pangs of dolefulness, as she did break up with her girlfriend tonight. Slipping in and out of consciousness, she recalled that truthfully, she really only liked Steve and maybe a few others at work, and then recalled again that, oh yeah, all her new friends and her now ex-girlfriend were all sleeping in her apartment tonight. She took a sip of water. Right.

4:54 AM. So how did he unhinge himself from the mass without waking anyone up? Who knows. Certainly not Mark, as he began to tip-toe to the kitchen. 

4:55 AM. She recalled her mother's words to her, spoken and scolded a while back: "Joanne, you deserve the chance to go out on a whim more, you do, Kitten. It'd be healthy for you, if only to make your outbursts a little less ridiculous." Honestly, every moment with Maureen had felt like a whim, but this outburst, the one where some five strangers were sleeping on her living room floor, was an entirely new and different direction for her. It wasn't a bad feeling actually. On a positive note, this was her first real sleepover since what, college? Maybe she should've made popcorn. 

4:56 AM. Oh fuck, Joanne was awake. Mark froze, her back to his, resting her arms on the counter. He didn't know what they were at this point, as in, would it be weird, would it be unwelcome, was he pushing her boundaries by grabbing a glass of water and engaging in conversation? Maybe he should just turn back around, tip-toe back to the floor...

It didn't matter, she'd turned around and saw him anyway; he jumped at the sudden movement. Joanne wiped her tired eyes before reaching into the cupboard to grab him a glass. 

"Sorry to startle you," said Mark, despite between the two of them, she hadn't been the one who was surprised. 

Joanne yawned. "No worries. You move like a mouse. Having trouble sleeping?" She held out the porcelain cup for Mark to take, and he did so with no hesitation.

"A little." Mark took a sip; the water tasted different here. Weirdly cleaner. 

"It's the snoring in there, isn't it?" asked Joanne, cracking a smile. 

"I honestly don't know which one of them it's coming from, and I've lived with three of them," Mark scoffed, shaking his head. 

Almost in tandem, Mark and Joanne rested their elbows back on the counter, facing the window, where the city that never slept was further illuminated by a blanket of fresh white snow. 

"Merry Christmas, by the way," Mark piped. 

"Aren't you Jewish?"

"I am, but you have a tree up, so I figured I'd provide the sentiment. It's about as much as I can offer."

"Thanks, Mark."

"Yeah."

"I can offer you tea, if you want. Sleepytime might help."

"Nah. Sleepytime Tea doesn't usually help me."

"Ditto."

Between sips and the intermittent snores from the living room behind them, Joanne could feel her breath stretching out slower, the warmth from her bathrobe growing thicker and thicker like it might carry her off to bed. But she could tell Mark was still somewhat twitchy, awake enough, tense like he needed to say something. Tapping his cup and taking sips and periodically switching between the view of window and the pile of bodies behind them, like the apartment might crack in half and leave a gaping rift apart. She was too tired to pin his type though, although she guessed if they had any similarities between the two of them, he would do what she would do: sit, wait, not say a damn thing, and at best, hope for the consistency to try again tomorrow. After, y'know, some sleep...

"So now what?" Mark asked. 

"Hm?" Joanne blinked back to consciousness, realizing perhaps falling asleep standing at the counter was an iffy choice at best. "What'd you say?"

"Well, I mean, thank you, first of all, for letting us all in here for the night-"

"It's fine? Really it's my pleasure, I-"

"We're strangers though. Between you and me, this could've ended poorly-"

"Most of you are Maureen's friends, I can just put names to faces now? What, are you suggesting it's _about_ to end poorly-"

"No, not at all, but just look at us," Mark tossed a thumb up over his shoulder to the living room behind him. Joanne's gaze narrowed, looking back and forth between the dim, single light in the kitchen and the darkness of her living room, not knowing quite where he was going with this.

"You got your ex-girlfriend taking up the whole darn couch over there." Joanne almost snorted, following Mark's line of vision to Maureen sprawled on the couch, breathing heavy and in a position that didn't necessarily seem comfortable.

"You got the clumsy anarchist who pulled a stint so bad at MIT he's up for arrest if he shows back up on their campus again alongside his new cross-dressing flame who technically killed a dog today for some dough, snoring together on the floor," Mark pointed, where Angel and Collins snored and honked back and forth like they were hitting a beachball over a net to one another.  

"You got the ex-junkie who hasn't seen the light of day in months stealing all the blankets from the stripper who he _might_ be with after they met, last night, after she 'kicked his door down'."

Joanne could've sworn, earlier, that Mimi had all the blankets, but apparently that changed as Roger turned to his side, thus, turning himself into a giant egg roll. "She did not kick his door down."

"His words, not mine."

"Charming."

"And then you have me, your ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend, who may or may not have sabotaged your relationship tonight-"

"Oh, come on, it's not like you _forced_ Maureen to kiss that girl at the Life-"

"Our conversation at the performance space did not help things, other than to get us acquainted-"

"What's your point, Cohen?" Joanne shrugged, offering Mark the chance to explain. 

"Listen, a majority of the people in this apartment tonight are effectively homeless. A majority of them have a terminal, emphasis on  _terminal_ illness. Is that weird for you, that you just let these people crash here like we're all close friends? What this means for the future?"

"They are my friends?" said Joanne. "Well, they can be my friends. I met them all tonight. I like them. If you're implying the difference in wealth is going to be an issue-"

"No, no, no-"

"But I have a good feeling about this, and I usually don't get good feelings about new things. New people. Of course none of it's certain, I don't know anything about the future, but I think I can deal with whatever weird existential nonsense you're spouting right now once I wake up." She folded her arms, trying to settle back into the gooey warmth she'd almost felt whilst falling asleep in her bathrobe. "Is this weird for _you_?"

Mark thumbed with the handle of his mug momentarily before setting it down on her counter top. "No. I'm glad we're all here, that tonight even happened. But I mean, I'd love a _plan_ of some kind. A concrete tomorrow, if possible."

"Mark," Joanne was pointing now, right above his head, to her wooden clock with the painted birds on it, hanging right above the stove. "What time is it?"

"A little after 5 AM? Five-oh-five?"

"So? It's tomorrow. Tomorrow is today. It's what we got," impulsively, Joanne nudged Mark to the side, to put his cup in the sink instead with the intention of cleaning it later. "It's not much, but based on what you said, it's a privilege, is it not?" 

"It is."

"Well then," Joanne awkwardly clapped his shoulder, cringing in the meantime as these kinds of talks were never really her thing. "Enjoy the day. Merry Christmas. Let it happen, I guess?"

Mark, also recognizing how far this conversation had stepped and his own inadequacy at emotional pep talks, let out a sort of half-smile that let Joanne know they were cool and it was back to normal once they woke up. "You guess?" he asked.

"Whatever. I'm tired now. I'm going to bed. Merry Christmas, Cohen," Joanne sighed, putting her hands in her pockets as she began to walk away. 

"'Night, Joanne," said Mark, waiting for her to take a few more steps back to her room before he reached for the cup out of the sink where Joanne had left it to grab another drink. 


End file.
